


Of Masks and Men

by storyinmypocket



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Trans, Bruce pretends to be a woman for way too long, Closeted Character, Gender Dysphoria, Multi, every Robin is a good Robin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 18:17:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15249135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storyinmypocket/pseuds/storyinmypocket
Summary: Bruce Wayne's parents named him Bridgette. This was a mistake.





	Of Masks and Men

**Author's Note:**

> Dysphoria is a thing that happens in this. Also really messed-up reasons for presenting as the gender you were assigned even after knowing it's not who you are. Although my experience as a genderfluid person is not quite the same as that of a trans man, I've done my best to translate my experiences over -- Bruce's dysphoria is closely modeled on things I've personally gone through or am currently going through. All the same, if reading about other people's dysphoria bothers you, please take care of yourself and find something happier to read.

Bruce learns his name, his real name, when he’s eight years old. Mother is having one of her friends over for tea, and he’s been allowed to stay so long as he’s on his very best behavior. While the topic at hand is boring --  “Annabeth would be perfect for a girl, but if it’s a boy, I just don’t know… Andrew, maybe? Or is that just a bit too precious?” as Mother’s friend curls a hand around her stomach protectively -- grownup tea with Mother is worth a little tedium.

And then he hears it: “If things had turned out differently, we’d have had Bruce instead of Bridgette. There’s nothing wrong with staying with initials you like.”

Bruce -- yes, Bruce, that’s it, the name he’d been looking for, the one he was _supposed_ to have -- scrubs suddenly sweaty hands over his skirt and tries not to let the elation show on his face. He doesn’t know how to explain it yet, and he knows that if he tells his parents God made a mistake in making him a girl instead of a boy, they’ll be confused, maybe angry. He’s certain that God isn’t supposed to make mistakes. If He did, He wouldn’t be God. There’s no other explanation that Bruce can think of, but to say something like that aloud would only get him in trouble.

And Mother continues, right on cue, “Not that I’d give Bridgette up for ten boys.” She looks at Bruce and smiles in a way that usually makes Bruce feel warm down to his toes, though this time it leaves him cold and uneasy. “Having a little girl was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Bruce smiles back, because if Mother needs a little girl to be happy, he’ll play the part, even if it feels a little like lying. Mother’s smiles are worth it. The subject changes to how pretty and well-behaved he is, and he has to fight the urge to fidget, to do something that will make them send him away. But to do that would only disappoint Mother, so he accepts the compliments with smiles and thank yous, and waits for the subject to shift back to baby names. Luckily, it doesn’t take long.

That night, after he brushes his teeth, he stares in the mirror, trying to see past the long hair and frilly nightgown to the boy underneath.

“Bruce,” he tells his reflection. “My name is Bruce.”

 

Two weeks later, his parents take him along to one of the Monarch Theater’s classic film nights. The theater’s been relying on nostalgia to attract a higher class of patron in light of the neighborhood’s decline, and the Waynes are, of course, only too happy to support the arts. Bruce dutifully sits through the necessary primping and fussing, the dark velvet dress and the matching bow that adorns his hair -- the theater’s encouraging people to dress up, to make going out to see a movie an Event, like it was in the days when film was new, and his parents are setting an example for the rest of society. Mother explains it all to him as she finishes applying her makeup: if the Waynes take an interest, other families will follow, and money and jobs will flow into the old neighborhoods and restore them to their former glory.

Bruce, sitting on his parents’ bed, is only half paying attention. He’s more concerned with his father’s preparations, with the fastening of cufflinks and the way he knots his tie. It’ll be years before he hears the word “gentrification” or assigns it any meaning: for now, all he knows is that his parents are doing a good thing, and they’re taking him to a movie while they do it.

It’s called _The Mark of Zorro._

“You’ll like it,” Father says, smiling. “There’s a dashing hero, sword-fighting…”

Bruce doesn’t much care for the way his father says _dashing hero,_ like he’s supposed to want to be rescued, but the sword-fights do sound interesting, even if it _is_ an ancient black-and-white film with no voices. He’s reading well above his grade level, according to his teachers, and so he doesn’t see any problem in having to read the dialogue instead of hearing it.

More than that, he and Mother and Father are all going out together, like the families in books and on television. Father’s not working, and Mother doesn’t have a charity benefit to go to -- it’s all of them, together, and Bruce is sure that alone will make tonight one of the best nights of his life.

 

Then comes the part of the story everyone knows, the part that’s repeated on CNN and makes the front page of the Gotham Gazette three days straight: the wealthy family leaving the theater, the mugging gone wrong, the child watching her _(his)_ parents gunned down in an alley. The sickening sense of helplessness and grief.

Afterwards, Bruce waits for Alfred in the police station, an officer’s coat wrapped around his shoulders, his eyes swollen from crying and his throat raw from screaming, and he realizes suddenly that God didn’t make a mistake in making him a girl: God isn’t real. He’s just a grownup fairy tale, like Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny.

It’s easier to believe that than it is to believe God would be this cruel on purpose, and right now Bruce can see no other options.

That night, he steals Alfred’s scissors and cuts off handfuls of hair, ragged chunks of fabric, doing his best to destroy everything that ties him to femininity. Alfred says nothing about the ruined dresses, but the next morning a stylist comes at Alfred’s call and gives Bruce a pixie cut, ignoring his protests that he wants boy hair.

“We must keep up appearances for now,” Alfred says. “And there will be a dress for the funeral, of course. After that…” Alfred looks Bruce over, revealing nothing of what he might be thinking. “Well. After that we’ll see, won’t we?”


End file.
